Aftershocks
by Love Out Of Lust
Summary: Based on canon events: Ste's struggle in the episodes after Brendan's sent to prison. Two parts.
1. Chapter 1

The day that Brendan leaves him, Ste stays up till dawn. It's not intentional; the police search on the house is over, and Amy insists that he goes to bed at a decent hour, patiently listening to his insistence that he can't sleep in his room: less than twenty four hours ago, Brendan was there with him, beside him.

She does her best to tuck him in, making him feel like a child, trying to transform the sofa into an attractive alternative. Instead Ste's aware of the lumps of the material every time he shifts, and Amy finds him staring up at the ceiling at three o'clock when she gets a glass of water from the kitchen. She holds her hand out to him, and it's warm and soft and familiar in Ste's own, and he lets her lead him.

They tiptoe because of the kids, Leah and Lucas so blissfully unaware of what's happened today, but understanding that _something_ has; they witnessed their daddy with tears streaming down his face, pulling them to his chest like they were the only things anchoring him to reality. Leah had asked where Brendan was, _daddy Brendan_, and Amy had told her that he had gone away for a while, and wasn't coming back.

Ste had cried harder.

Amy cuddles up to him, and he rests his head against her chest. It's not meant to be like this, him drawing strength from her, her looking after him. He had prided himself on transforming himself, being someone who held the family together, someone they could count on. But he can't stop the gasping sobs from racking through him, making his chest rise and fall, Amy kissing against his hair.

She's doing more than he deserves, but he knows that she can't completely understand; his loss resonates with her, the idea of it and the grief that he carries, but not the person behind it. Not Brendan, and all that he is, and all that he means. Amy wasn't here when things were good, didn't bear witness to Brendan's protectiveness towards the kids, the way that he would look at Ste, so much affection and want in his expression that it took his breath away.

He'd never been loved like that before.

He must manage a few hours of fitful, disturbed sleep, because the next thing he's aware of is a small hand shaking him lightly. He squints in the morning light, momentarily forgetting what's transpired; he wonders whether Brendan's already in the kitchen making coffee, before he remembers. His son is staring at him in concern, and Ste wants to smooth his hands down Lucas's forehead, take away the worry etched there. He's too young to look like that, and Ste won't drag him down with him.

"Mummy's made us breakfast."

Ste follows him out of the room, brushing the sleep out of his eyes, feeling lightheaded. The picture that greets him is one of normality - a traditional family layout, and he feels as though he's been transported back to an earlier time, before Amy left and before Brendan became his world.

Amy holds out a chair for him, beckoning to the table where cereal and toast is spread out, an all you can eat buffet that Ste's stomach doesn't feel prepared for. He makes an effort to smile, figuring that Amy deserves that after the trouble she's gone to, the conscious attempt to make things seem casual. He grabs a slice of toast, grateful for the way he can tear it into pieces, unable to contemplate taking whole bites, nausea gripping him.

"Do you want something with it?" Amy asks, showing him an array of spreads. "Some jam? It's seedless."

Ste shakes his head fervently, tearing his eyes from it and picking up the peanut butter instead. He rejects coffee for some orange juice, stuffing Brendan's favourite Nescafé container in the back of the cupboard.

The juice is hard to swallow, the toast even harder. Leah and Lucas eat their breakfast eagerly. Ste envies them.

"So, what do you want to do today?"

"Thought I'd just stay in," Ste says immediately, has formed a plan in his mind - to have no plan. He doesn't want to go outside and face the village and people's questioning glances, their attempts to pry into his business. Brendan's a well known figure, and his absence won't pass without notice or remark. Darren was outside the club last night, holding Ste back when his screams had torn through his body. Ste doesn't trust the man's ability to stay silent about this; he's bound to have talked to Nancy and his dad and step mum, and with Frankie Osborne involved, there won't be any secrets.

He doesn't want to be pitied, doesn't want to be the subject of scrutiny and ridicule: how could he have lived with a mass murderer? How could he have exposed his children to such a monster? He can hear their hushed whispers, what they'll think of him; what they'll think of Brendan.

"It's a lovely day. It's not good to stay cooped up in here." He can sense by Amy's tone that she's not going to let this drop; she's a battle axe when she wants to be, and he doesn't fancy being on the receiving end.

"Maybe we could take the kids to the park." It's all he thinks he can manage. It'll give him something to concentrate on, making sure that they enjoy themselves, that they remain unaware of the monumental shift that's occurred overnight. And he doesn't know how long he has left with them - whether things will be different now that Brendan's not here. Whether Amy will let them stay permanently, or he'll have to say goodbye to them all over again.

Amy seems appeased by his suggestion, and after breakfast Ste begins getting the kids ready. Leah finds Britney by the sofa, the doll that she previously couldn't go anywhere without, and that she left with Ste when he'd hugged her and Lucas in the flat, listening to the sound of the door closing behind them.

"Did you give her lots of kisses, daddy? Whenever you missed me?"

"Every night," he says, voice cracking around the edges.

"Did Brendan too?"

Ste can feel Amy tensing beside him; it hits a nerve, the thought of her children with Brendan, and Ste hates that, hates that more than ever, because Brendan would never hurt a child, would rather die than do anything to them - innocent, don't have the strength to fight an adult off -

"Yeah. Of course he did." He says it with conviction, doesn't care that it's a half truth. Brendan never kissed it, but he'd pick the doll up sometimes, and his touch would be tentative agains the material, as though afraid that it would break; that he'd break it.

"We both missed you so much."

_You, me, Leah, Lucas - we're gonna be a proper family. _Brendan had told him that, had wanted it. He isn't lying now: they thought about the kids everyday, but Ste had felt the certainty that they'd get them back, together. That Amy would thaw, and eventually she and Brendan would form an unlikely alliance, would have a grudging sense of respect for each other, despite everything that had previously happened.

"And Brendan, he's gonna be so excited to see you." Ste's mumbling now, eyes bright and vivid with the idea of Brendan walking through that door again, a swagger to his steps, stance confident and knowing, a lopsided smile that says what his words don't: You really thought I'd leave you, Steven?

"Ste." Amy's voice is sharp, cutting through his imaginings. "Why don't you go and get dressed?"

Ste nods, dazed, eyes travelling to the bedroom, sure that he'll find the familiar soft mound waiting for him beneath the covers, days old stubble brushing against Ste's lips when he kisses him, Brendan's moustache scratchy and satisfying, its masculinity making Ste slip his hand beneath the Irishman's boxers, craving more; more of the defined contours of his chest, and more of the strength of his legs, easily trapping Ste and bending him to his will, curled around his arse to drag him closer.

When he opens the door, movements tentative and eyes wide, half fear and half excitement burning within him, he finds the bed as he made it. The sheets no longer smell of Brendan, and there's no imprint on the mattress.

There's nothing to suggest that he was here at all.

* * *

He watches as the kids weave in and out between the trees, their laughter and their endless chatter their form of Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs; they tell Ste the path that they're taking, and he and Amy follow the sound, silent as Ste grapples for something of worth to say. He can't think of anything; his words seem stuck.

Amy begins to fill in the blanks for him, mindlessly talking about her life back in Manchester, about Mike, about how the kids are settling into their new nursery and school. Ste nods and _umms_ and _ahhhs_ and makes all the expected sounds of interest, but his mind's still back in the flat, trying to find out where Brendan is, how he could have gone so soon. A person can't be in your life one moment, sharing your home and drinking from their favourite mug and leaving bristles of their hair in the sink, and then their laugh and their voice and their warmth is snatched from you, and no matter how many times you reach into the empty air, you can't get them back.

They still haven't talked about Brendan, not properly, and it's like a wall between them. Ste wants to find someone who would understand all of this, someone who knows what Brendan's really like, strong and brave and loyal, stubborn as fuck for giving everything away for his sister. Cheryl - he wants to speak to Cheryl, even if he stands the risk of hating her.

Ste listens as Amy tells him about her fiance, and it sparks something within him - the image of a bread ring, daft and ridiculous, that he'd held up to the light, slipping it onto his finger.

_Brendan Brady, will you marry me?_

The image fades as quickly as it comes.

"Do you ever think about Lee?" It comes from nowhere, and Amy blinks at him, startled.

"Why?" She looks offended by the question, as though Ste's picking away at an old wound that she thought had healed.

"Just thought that you would end up together."

He liked Lee. He could be frustrating as hell at times, and Ste had called him every name under the sun when he'd tried to take his family away from him to move to America, but there was a goodness about him - a kindness. And Amy had never laughed with anyone the way she laughed with him.

The first time she told him about her feelings for Lee, everything had just started with Brendan. There had been an excitement, the thought of the two of them being with people who made them feel that alive.

"So did I," Amy says in a small voice, and he regrets bringing it up, but he can't stop himself from probing further.

"Are you still in touch?"

"Not really. The odd text now and then, just to check in with each other, but...well, it's awkward, isn't it? Why, how often do you and Noah catch up?" She adds wryly.

It raises a flicker of a smile, dim and fleeting.

"Not much, funnily enough."

"Didn't think so somehow. It's always going to be weird, isn't it - exes."

He doesn't point out that they're exes, and they've done pretty well.

"I don't want to know who he's..." Amy stops, releases a small shudder.

"But maybe if you talked to him, you and him could -"

"It's not going to happen. I've moved on."

Moved on. It sounds like the words don't fit together, and Ste's grateful when Leah and Lucas come tearing out of the bushes, displaying their collection of muddy twigs that Ste pretends to find deeply fascinating.

He wonders if Amy's like him, whether she met the person who she was meant to spend the rest of her life with, and now she's settling, marrying someone who's safe, who will never compare to all that she had.

* * *

He hovers around the phone that afternoon. Amy takes the kids to the deli to visit Doug, but Ste declines the offer. He's not ready to see the look of pity, the firm insistence that he's had a lucky escape, the horror on Doug's face when he discovers what crimes Brendan's been sent down for.

He reassures Amy that he'll be fine, and when she closes the door it begins; the pacing, the furtive glances across at the telephone, and the desperate grasp of his mobile in his hand. He'll be allowed to make private calls, won't he? That's what Ste's seen on television, and he remembers being able to speak to his mum in young offenders. Perhaps Brendan was too busy being searched and shown his room last night, and he would have needed time to adjust, to take some breathing space.

Perhaps he still had the intention to end all contact. _I'm going away for life. You have to live yours_. But he'll have woken up today realising that he _is_ Ste's life, and Ste is his, and he'll call, send a visiting order. Or if not today then tomorrow, but it's going to happen soon, this weekend, and they're going to piece back together what was broken.

So Ste waits, and he plays music softly in the background, not loud enough so that he won't be able to hear the phone, but so that he can hear the distinctive tones of Johnny Cash filling the room. Ste wonders whether it's a premonition, whether Brendan always knew that this was going to happen; the guy's singing about prison for fucks sake, seems to be in every song, and it feels like Brendan might have given up a long time ago and simply didn't tell him, fed him false hope that Ste made the world beautiful for him again.

Ste bounces his legs up and down, tries to find an outlet for the anxiety that's gripping him. Brendan had been detached in hospital, had told him the way that things were going to be like it was a business agreement, something clinical.

He jumps when he hears the sound of keys in the door, initially forgetting that Amy has a spare set that she's kept hold of. He moves before she can work out what he's been doing, how even when he asks how Doug is, he's glancing over her shoulder, willing to hear the familiar sound of the phone ringing.

He scolds Leah during supper when she's screaming over having to eat her vegetables, and Amy looks at him in shock at his sudden burst of anger. He mumbles an apology, but his thoughts are racing: did Brendan call when his daughter was having a temper tantrum, and now he's lost his chance?

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom and quickly checks the answer machine, but there's nothing there.

He awakes the next morning with renewed hope. Today will be the day that Brendan calls. He's thankful that he only had a few hours of sleep - it means that he can concentrate on waiting by the phone, his attention not diverted. He gets out of bed, gently dislodging Amy from around him where her head rests against his shoulder.

He uses Brendan's mug to make himself a coffee; he wants it to look used, not for it to become an ornament gathering dust. When he drinks from it, he feels mildly ridiculous for thinking about the fact that Brendan's lips were once around the rim, the soft hairs of his moustache against the china. It's the closest he's come to kissing him in over twenty four hours.

It's cold at this early hour, and he grabs the dressing gown off the sofa. His hands freeze around it: _he_ wore it, made it his own. At first Ste had tried to deter him, had suggested that he buy one, had imagined the thought of him and Brendan in matching sets, partly nauseating, partly something that flooded him with that particular feeling: the feeling that this was it for them, that they were a couple, did _couple_ things, whatever that meant. But he'd grown to like it, the sight of Brendan in it. It suited him, and it made for quite the image, seeing him walking around the house in it and little else, hair-covered legs on display, a flash of skin showing through the top of it.

Ste slips it on slowly. The material's still soft despite the repeated washes, and it stops anymore goose bumps from erupting down his arms. He perches on the sofa, and he lets the excitement build within him; it's only been a day, but he's missing the accent, the drawl, the teasing, the sarcasm.

The phone rings, and he snatches it urgently, almost knocking it over in the process. His words tumble over each other; there's so much to say, and he's afraid that he doesn't have enough time, that Brendan will never understand how when he says that he's in, that he's all in, for life, that it'll sound like a promise that's designed to be broken, something that a child makes. He's not a child anymore; he can handle it: the weekly prison visits, the distance, the years without sex - he can deal with that, won't matter worth a damn if Brendan stays by his side. It's the shutting out, the darkness and the loneliness that he can't take.

"Steven." His voice is a rasp, and he sounds like he's been through the wars, is wounded already, but he's here, and he's talking to him, and Ste could cry from happiness.

"Bren." It's a familiar nickname, and it feels good to say it again. No one else but Cheryl calls him it, and she's not around to say it now. He needs to keep it alive, that intimacy.

"How are you? I knew you would call." Because he did, he knew it.

"I didn't mean to. Didn't even know I was going to do this until I dialled the numbers."

Ste smiles at that: there's some twisted satisfaction to be had from the fact that Brendan couldn't resist getting in touch. That despite his good intentions, they're always pulled back to each other.

"What I said at the hospital..."

"It's okay," Ste immediately interrupts. He doesn't want to be reminded of that. It's too raw, not ready to be pressed at again.

"I didn't..." _I didn't mean it. _It's what Ste wants to hear, only it's not the truth: Brendan did mean it, meant for them to stay away from each other, but nothing has ever been about what should happen, and what's right, and what's fair. Desire is a different breed of monster, and love is even worse.

"I want to take it back," Brendan whispers, and Ste holds the phone closer to his ear, wants to hear every miraculous, beautiful word.

"Please take it back." He's begging now, but he's not ashamed; some things are worth throwing away pride for. He'd screamed at the hospital, and cried and held onto the railings of the bed: his dignity has already been lost, but that's not what he's afraid of losing.

"I'm a bastard."

"I know."

"And selfish for doing this."

"Probably."

"I'm gonna fuck up your life."

"You already have," Ste says, choking back a sob and a laugh, doesn't know which is stronger, which wants to be released from him more.

"Steven, are you sure about this? Are you sure that this is what you want? It's going to be impossible, you do realise that?"

Ste shakes his head, even though Brendan can't see him.

"Not impossible. Impossible suggests that we can't do it. But we can, Brendan. We can. I know we can." He wills him to have that faith; Brendan's always been the more religious of the two, but this requires a different kind of belief altogether.

"You'll become bored."

"Bored?" Ste says, voice full of disbelief. "You're a lot of things, but life with you has never been boring."

"Okay then - you won't be able to cope. It's going to be difficult, you must know that? A constant fucking headache. You're strong, you're the strongest man I know, but even you can't -"

"Yes I can. Whatever it is, I can do it." He's sure of that, doesn't have a flicker of doubt beneath the surface.

"You'll want to see other people. I can't give you what you need in here."

"You think I was with you for sex - is that it?"

"No..."

Ste's sure that he can sense Brendan rubbing his temple on the other side of the line. Still causing him stress, even with all these miles between them.

"Not the only reason. But you're young, you have needs -"

Ste laughs at that, some cliched line that doesn't apply to this situation in the slightest. Yeah, he has needs - he needs Brendan.

"I can give you a blow job under the table, can't I?"

That makes Brendan laugh, reluctantly at first but then he gives into it, low and filthy, a chuckle.

"I don't think prison quite works like that."

"Shame. It would make everyone's life a lot happier."

He can't believe they're doing this, joking like there aren't cordoned off fences separating them, barbed wire and locked doors. A life sentence. But it feels good to laugh, and better to be laughing with Brendan.

"What I'm trying to say is - I meant what I said. You and me, we can do anything."

"And I meant what I said too. I'm selfish. And...I love you."

Ste closes his eyes, concentrates for a second on those words, lets them take hold of him, become a blanket enveloping him.

"I love you too." He hears similar relief from the other side; the sound of a sigh, and silence as they both adjust to this, to the fact that they're going to do this, they're going to make this work -

Ste stares at the phone for so long that be begins to think he can hear it ring, but it's merely the hopeful workings of his mind, clinging onto something which he doesn't want to let die. His eyes sting, and his vision is blurry. It takes him a moment to realise why, and then he brushes the tears roughly from his eyes, and decides that he can't exist in this silence any longer.

* * *

When he goes into the village it's still relatively early, and all the quieter for being a Sunday. He buys flowers and a bar of chocolate from the local shop, and when he enters the flat again, he tries to be brave.

Amy's watching television, and the kids are eating breakfast when he walks in, jam clearly displayed on the table.

"Hey, don't scoff everything - save room for this." He hands over the chocolate bar like a prize, and tries to make their elation become his own; he can vaguely recall that, becoming excited over such a simple thing.

Amy applies the doting mum card, the one that he hasn't always managed to make up for since she's been gone.

"Chocolate, for breakfast?"

"Why not?" He makes it sound like a celebration, kissing Lucas, and it _is_ something to celebrate, the kids being here after so long, but it doesn't fill him with the comfort that it should.

He presents Amy with the flowers, thanking her, because she's been holding him together since she came here, the sticking plaster that refuses to let him come undone. Then he begins his attempt to drum up some enthusiasm, deliberately pitching his voice to how he wants it to be. He sounds normal - he _hopes_ he sounds normal.

"I thought we could go into town. There's a new fair that's arrived. It's got bouncy castles and everything, and the big slides that you like."

They whoop and cheer; Brendan's taken a trip to the seaside for all they know.

Amy voice rings over them. "Ste, we can't."

Ste's smile fades. He knew this was coming, but he thought there was some way to change it, that he could salvage something from this.

"I've got to take them home. I'm so sorry, but we've got to go back today."

He stares at Leah and Lucas. Have they grown taller in the months since they left him, or is it just his imagination, his fear twisting things? He wonders what he's missed - what new developments he hasn't caught up on, because it's impossible to find out everything in the short space of time that he's had. He shouldn't have been so preoccupied, waiting for the call that never came. He should have been with them.

Amy's gathering the kids up now, wiping the crumbs off their faces and keeping the chocolate bar out of reach from Lucas's outstretched hands. She's rushing, Ste can feel it - perhaps she can tell that there's something wrong with him, something that drives people away. The same thing that made Brendan reject him. As she does their coat buttons up and reaches for her own, he feels like everything's spiralling away from him in slow motion, and if he doesn't try to stop it, then they'll walk out of that door, and he might never see them again. Why would they want to come back?

"But Ames -"

"You know we can't stay."

"Can I just have a few more days, please?"

He needs the chance to get things sorted in his head, and he knows it's not possible without the kids, without Amy here with him, a grounding presence. The girl that he grew up with, and the man he wanted to grow old with; gone, just like that.

Amy reminds him of the practicalities: Leah's school, that she's only just begun to become comfortable in. They'll call, ask questions. He has an answer for that, because there has to be an answer - they can tell them that she's sick, maybe take the whole week off, stay here. He can feel Amy growing restless, and she drags him away from the kids like he's a nuisance, a difficulty.

"I need you here." Ste's almost crying as he says it, as he realises the truth that lies behind it. He needs them, otherwise he'll crumble.

Amy thinks he's more capable than that, tells him so, but he thinks she's doing it as a means to get away, to escape the exposing nature of his tears.

"Brendan's bad news." She's finally said his name, and it's what he'd feared it would be, a way to blame. "He always was, and he always will be."

Always: it strikes a chord in him. He and Brendan were robbed of their always, and all that's left is ruined reminders. The ghost of a future.

"In time, you'll come to realise that what happened is probably for the best."

She says it gently, as though talking to one of the children.

_Do you want me to spend the rest of my life with people telling me that I'm better off without you? Because I'm not. _

Ste shakes his head, needs to deny it. They were happy, they had a chance at something, were going to be together, and he can't understand how Amy doesn't see that, how someone who knows him so well is so utterly blind to the effect that Brendan had on his life. She sees an abuser, a manipulator, a murderer. She doesn't see the man.

"How can you say that?" His voice is thick with tears that are desperate to be shed.

"Because it's true!" She's passionate now, all riled up like she always is when talking about Brendan. Her anger gives her drive, makes her eyes wide and doll like. It makes her feel powerful, hating someone this much.

"Now you can learn to stand on your own two feet."

It sounds like she's asking him to be alone.

"You went from me to Doug to Brendan. You've never given yourself the time or the space to figure out who you are, and what it is that you want."

He knows what he wants. It's in a prison cell.

"I can't do it on my own."

_I can't do this without you._

Ste puts his hand over his face, tries to hold back the onslaught of emotion that's rippling at the edges, making his body tense with trying to hold it in.

"Yes you can." Amy takes his hand, repeats it again and again, _you can, you can, _until it ceases to mean anything, just feels like false hope. Her arms wrap around him, and it feels like she's already saying goodbye.

Over her shoulder, Ste can feel his fear, sadness swelling within him, threatening and insurmountable. He realises with an acute clarity that he has no idea what he's going to do next, and as he waves the kids and Amy goodbye, he goes back inside the flat, staring around at the emptiness, the lack of a home that the place has become. He can feel his name wanting to form on his tongue, nearly says it out loud, _Brendan_, but it's too foolish, too naive. He's not going to appear from Ste summoning him. If Brendan wanted to see him, then he would have fought for this precarious thing they have, treating it delicately, like something precious.

Ste goes into the bedroom, getting as far as the doorway before his steps falter. It's one thing to quickly grab some clean clothes from the drawer, but another thing entirely to look around, noticing the things that are undeniably Brendan's - the shirts hanging in the wardrobe, and the pack of gum on the table. Ste wants to touch them, run his fingers along these objects, feel some sort of connection, _any_ connection - but if he does that, then he'll remove the prints of Brendan's hands, and it'll be like he's played a part in erasing him completely.

* * *

The deli's empty when he first arrives, and he uses the opportunity to look around, take it in. He chose the colours of the walls, the furniture - the entire decor. He'd said that to Brendan in an instance of anger, when he'd been desperate to carve a life away from him, create something that was his. All those months, _years_ spent hating the person who he loved the most.

He begins to unload some of the stock, and it's then that he hears a key in the lock, the door opening. Ste's hands tremble the slightest amount around the edges of the cardboard box; he's not ready for this, but he has to be.

"I didn't think you'd be in today." Doug's voice is full of concern, and it's exactly what he doesn't need right now, a reminder of what's happened.

"Why wouldn't I be? I've got two deliveries to do. And do you know that stock room's not been cleaned for weeks?"

Doug's not convinced. He sees through it, Ste's front transparent, weightless. He says his name, _Ste_, and it sounds like _stop. Listen to me._

Ste ignores him, heading towards the kitchen. "It's got to be done, Doug." He talks about a rival business that's opening up nearby, "we've got to be top of our game," has a competitive edge to his voice that surprises him: he didn't know he could slip on a mask so easily, pretend to care about something that seems meaningless now.

Doug tears down the foundations of the mask, cuts away at it. "Stop!" He sounds almost angry, frustrated by this display. "You don't have to pretend with me."

Ste leans against the counter, a swirl of memories attacking him. He can still remember the last taste of Brendan's lips before he was ripped away.

"I really don't want to talk about it." This is why he wanted to return to work; it allows him to focus on the mundane, on tasks and preparation. Cooking gives him that outlet, could do it in his sleep.

"I know how hard this is for you."

Ste wants to laugh, feels anger boil beneath the surface, thick and dark and overpowering.

"Oh do you?" His voice is dripping with scepticism, and it makes Doug vicious in return.

"To lose someone you love? Yeah, I've got a pretty good idea."

Is it him, is that who he's talking about? Or is it that girl of his, the blond girl who Silas killed? It's not the same, either of them, and Ste thinks it in the silence, thinks how Doug losing Bex wasn't like this. If Doug's always been gay then he can't have loved her, can't have wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. A friend, maybe, but not the same hurt when she died; not even close.

If it's him, if Doug's talking about losing _him_ - he's got him here. He's living and breathing right in front of him, is real and within reach, close enough to touch.

Ste can't touch Brendan anymore.

"You're gonna get through this."

No one's listening to him. No one knows him. He feels like he's screaming, and no one can hear.

"Here come the clichés." He's smiling as he says it, face contorted so it looks like a sneer, ugly and cruel. "What are you gonna say now? Time's a great healer? Well Brendan's looking at a thirty year stretch, so I reckon I've got plenty of time to heal, don't you?"

Doug wants him to stop, eyes downcast, can't even meet Ste's own. It's too much. He's too much.

"Alright." He's quiet, and Ste knows that this is his cue to apologise for snapping, to be dutiful and compliant and make this work.

But he doesn't.

"No, it's not alright, Doug. Don't stand there, pretending that you understand how I feel. Because you don't understand. How could you?"

Ste wants to leave, needs to leave, get the fuck out of this place, but he's unlocked something now, and he can't chain it back up again, can't stop the venom from leeching through.

"It's not gonna be okay, because I've just lost the only man that I've ever loved."

Ste has his back to him, pulling on his jacket, and he feels triumphant, dangerously so. Dangerous because this isn't what he does anymore, making a misery of people's lives, sticking the knife in, twisting it until it bleeds, surveying the damage like it's a beautiful wreckage that he's created. He's meant to be better than that, had gone to anger management sessions to leave all that behind, the desire to turn the people he loves into victims, helpless to his every command, the hold he has over them toxic.

The father he is, the boyfriend he was, the person he's trying to be - he doesn't do this, not now.

He can feel the pain he's caused without having to glimpse it.

"Ste, I know you're hurting but that doesn't mean that the rest of us have to suffer." He's pushed him too far; Doug's voice is shaking, and Ste garners more satisfaction from that: if someone else is hurting, then maybe he won't be.

"Awww, that's nice." It's acidic, and mocking, and he could do real damage here - wants to get his hands on something, break something, set fire to it and watch it burn. Laugh as it goes up in smoke.

It's hit a nerve. Ste's not the only one who's looking to wound now.

"You knew what Brendan was like, so don't go playing the victim, okay?"

Ste doesn't say anything, laughs that joyless, silent laugh again. Doug's right; he did know what Brendan was like, went into this relationship knowing everything - the fucks, the fucks ups, the blackness of Brendan's eyes when he would use his fists to bruise and mark and scar. He went into the relationship because of what Brendan was like, not in spite of. He had police arresting his boyfriend, drugs in the club, had his own kids taken away. But for Ste, there was no one else.

He can't stay here anymore, fears for what he'll do if he does. He slams the door shut behind him, relishing the sound of it, the violence. He stumbles along the pavement outside; the lack of sleep makes his moments clumsy, uncoordinated, and he takes a deep lungful of air to try and steady himself, stop his head from spinning.

He's got nothing back at the flat, nothing to make going back there seem like an attractive option. He can't go to Chez Chez - it's boarded up while the police are using it for their investigations, and he's afraid of the ghosts he might find there.

The Dog is quiet when he approaches it, and he orders a drink - a beer for himself, and a whiskey because it's what _he_ would order, and he doesn't want to be alone right now, wants to feel Brendan beside him. He takes a small sip from the whiskey, but it's an acquired taste, just like Guinness, and Ste winces as it runs down his throat. He'd licked it off Brendan's chest once, the liquid making a trail down his groin, over his public hair, so Ste had lapped that up too, giving little darting flicks of his tongue. They'd both been heady with intoxication, and Ste remembers giggling - a lot, high pitched and endless, until Brendan had kicked his ankle, frustrated and amused when Ste had stilled in his actions. He'd concentrated after that, pouring more of the bottle into the grooves of Brendan's arse cheeks so that it trickled into his hole. "Go on." Brendan had coaxed him, fixing him with a heated glance that did something to Ste's hands and legs and cock, made a sweet thrill run through him. He didn't entirely understand why Brendan wasn't doing this to him; he was the one who liked whiskey, and fuck knows he liked to rim. Perhaps this was part of the continued education he was giving Ste: the lesson of drinking Jameson's, and enjoying it.

Ste drinks more of the whiskey, lets it sting and burn.

He hears Doug before he sees him, hears the sound of a chair being scraped back, and only then looks.

"Ste, I'm sorry."

He feels a stab of guilt, can recall everything he said in the deli, and the way that he said it. He should be apologising, but the words still don't come.

"Don't worry about it." He's softer now, doesn't know if it's the drink or his way of saying how much of a mess he is, how fucked up he feels.

"Look, why don't we just take off and go for a chat somewhere?"

Ste plays with the whiskey glass. There's a little bit left inside. Maybe Brendan will walk through those doors, finish the rest.

"No, you're alright."

Doug's insistent, doesn't give up. "Ste, please. Come back to mine."

He laughs, can read the desperation in Doug's face. It's fucking hilarious, all of this: the person he doesn't want is the person who's here, not letting go.

"Wow. You've been waiting for any excuse to get me back into bed."

He considers it, then; fucking Doug, burying himself inside him, making him arch his back and shoot down Ste's throat when he wraps his mouth around his cock, tip of it smooth. It would be so simple, to go down that path again.

Doug's not amused. Ste's ruined things, again. "I'm trying to be a friend."

"Tell you what. If you want to help, you can go back to the bar and get me another drink. And if you don't, just leave me here. All by myself." He lifts up his beer glass, slugs it back like it's air, stares at Doug, waiting for his move; stay here and play babysitter, or leave him to rot.

Doug rises from the table, and Ste thinks he's made his choice.

"What do you want?"

Ste blinks, the lights on the ceiling blinding.

"What?"

"To drink." He's reluctant, doesn't think he's doing the right thing. But he's not leaving.

"The same again - a beer, and a whiskey. Ta."

He starts on the beer first. He keeps the whiskey glass on the table, his free hand wrapped around it. His palm warms the glass, making sure that it's still here, that he doesn't lose it.

He's ready to forget now.


	2. Chapter 2

A glass smashes. The whiskey glass. Ste hears it shatter, surveying the broken fragments on the floor through hazy, intoxicated eyes.

Darren walks over to the table, voice raised.

"Ste, what are you playing at?"

Ste frowns, angling for a fight. It's what he's been waiting for all day, making his hands twitch and his body thrum with unused tension. He wants to _do_ something.

Doug speaks before he can get the words out.

"It's okay, Darren. I've got this."

It's like the old days, Doug cleaning up his mess. Being the responsible one. Looking after him, like he's something fragile that can't be out in public for too long in case he shows him up, brings shame and embarrassment upon him.

Ste rises from his seat, anger flaring within him.

"No, don't be doing that."

"What?" Doug's irritated. Sick of him.

"Don't be treating me like some kind of half wit."

Doug's disbelieving, doesn't even realise he's doing it, huffs a sigh like this is an inconvenience. An annoyance.

"Let's just go back to the shop, okay? I'll fix you some lunch - I've got some of that Italian bread in."

Ste's mouth is around the rim of the beer glass, and he nearly spits it out; Doug still doesn't understand, still doesn't fucking get it. Thinks that all it's going to take is some food and a few words of Doug Carter wisdom and he'll be good as new, all stitched up like there was nothing bleeding to begin with.

He can't keep a lid on his anger now, and he hears the aggression in his voice. The viciousness.

"Oh my God. When will you get it into your thick head, Doug? I don't care about your fancy bread."

"You used to."

He's wounded, caught between a similar fury and the hurt rippling at the edges. Ste thinks all it would take is a few more carefully selected words and Doug would be crying, tears rolling down his cheeks in front of him.

"Well I don't anymore."

He wonders what it used to feel like, to care. To care about Doug, and the friendship they have, and holding onto what he has in his life; why he was so concerned with going to the effort to protect everything.

He can't stop now. Even as Doug's walking away from him, pulling on his coat and heading towards the exit, patience worn thin and mouth a downward curve, Ste tells him that he doesn't need his help, that if he wants to play the Good Samaritan then he should talk to the girl who tried to kill herself, that girl who lives with the Osbornes. He's aware that he's shouting it, but it makes him feel powerful: everyone can hear, and it gives what he's saying weight.

He needs someone to listen.

He feels a pair of strong hands around him, and he's steered from the pub, Darren's touch rough and unapologetic as he struggles in his arms. Ste tries to release himself from his grip, fights and swings his arms and tries to gather the energy to push him off.

"Come on then, come on." It's a challenge: give me your best shot, and I'll give you mine. But Darren isn't giving into the bait.

Ste's overpowered, landing on the concrete when Darren shoves him, narrowly avoiding falling face first, using his hands to protect himself.

"Grow up, Ste. You're not Brendan Brady, and you never will be."

"You'll regret that, Osborne." It's all he can think to say, a useless, meaningless threat that doesn't scare Darren, hurts him far less than when he says Brendan's name like that. He doesn't want to be Brendan: he wants to be _with_ him.

There's a difference, but nobody seems to realise.

* * *

Ste meets a boy. He's seen him around a couple of times in the village, but he's been of little consequence, barely a passing notice.

He approaches him when he's drinking by the pond; Ste may have been kicked out of the The Dog, but there are no rules against this. The boy - George, Ste later discovers - is dressed in a garish ensemble that looks like something straight from a 80s pop tribute band. He's tentative at first, looks like he's never seen a man drowning his sorrows before, but he begins to develop a quiet confidence about him, and when he offers to take Ste home, nothing in him wants to refuse.

He can tell that George has been drinking; he's full of nervous, aimless chatter as they walk back to the flat, and with every swaying, uncoordinated step that Ste takes, George takes one too. It suits him - there's a lack of judgement there that Doug doesn't possess; too sober, too straight laced, too intent on doing the right thing. He's not someone that Ste can do this with, and it's why the first thing he does when he gets home is offer George a drink: he knows he'll accept one, and they can go from there.

The boy tells him that he can't have too much more. "I don't want to tell everyone I love them and get all emotional on the way home."

"Love's overrated mate. Stay away." The words stick in his throat. He takes a swig from the beer, can't remember the last time that he had this much to drink. He didn't need it with Brendan. He wanted to remember everything with him.

"I heard about Brendan." George's voice is soft, sympathetic.

Of course he heard. The whole fucking village probably knows by now, and if they don't then they soon will. It'll be in the papers: the local businessman who confessed to being a mass murderer. Who killed his own father, and who would rather rot in prison for the rest of his life than stay with Ste, and tell the truth.

Everyone will know how Brendan left him.

"You two were together, weren't you?"

Ste nods. They were together in every way that two people can be.

"You must be gutted."

"Nah. I don't want to see his stupid moustache face ever again." He's on a roll now, has someone who's willing to listen to him, and the beer's making his words come easily. "You know what he said to me? This is the way it's got to be, Steven. I did it for you." He puts on an Irish accent, Brendan's words ringing in his ears as Ste slides down the wall and onto the carpet, his legs feeling like they're buckling out from underneath him.

Brendan had told him that at the hospital, patronising as fuck because he sure as hell wasn't doing this for him. He was doing it for himself, cutting Ste off so he didn't have to deal with the consequences, didn't have to try and fight for them.

Nothing had to be like this.

"No. The only thing you ever did for me Brendan, right, was break my heart. Over and over again."

The punches. The months, years spent without him because Brendan was too stubborn, too fucked up to get him back, to stop the games and the violence and say what he did on that bridge so much sooner.

They could have had years together.

"And now, he's not even here, and he's still doing it."

He looks at George, sees the boy's quiet, reflective pity, knows how he must appear, but Ste's powerless to stop it in this moment. He can't say this to Amy, can't tell Doug how he no longer understands the meaning behind any of this, of life. They'd both shrug his feelings off, tell him that Brendan's poison. _He_ can think that; he can't hear someone else saying it.

"Let me give you some advice. Don't ever fall in love. Because it'll ruin you. Ruin your life."

"You can't give up just because of one bad experience though, can you?" George says, sinking to the floor opposite him.

Ste wants to laugh: _one_ bad experience. It makes it sound meaningless, like he tried but ultimately failed, that it was a fling, something casual that he'll consign to his past, buried and turning to dust like a rotting corpse. One bad experience was Noah. Was Doug.

Brendan wasn't an experience, wasn't a passing fancy. He was everything, was meant to stay here with him forever, didn't matter how many arguments they had, the jealousy and the tension and the insecurity. None of that mattered.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Georgie boy."

"Yes I do. I'm not a kid." He takes a sip of his beer, as if to prove the point, even though Ste was swigging from cans of cider in the park when he was fourteen, still didn't know anything about love or the way it worked. But Ste likes his defiance, likes how he answered back, losing his earlier tentativeness. George is the kind of boy who Ste used to tease mercilessly, an easy target who wouldn't have the strength to defend himself, displaying his sexuality openly, as bright and colourful as the clothes he wears.

Now he's here, in his flat, trying to be the wise one.

He's building up confidence, starts telling Ste about an ex of his, some guy called Ryan. Ste's half listening, the beer holding more of his interest than George's tales of his adolescent lust confused as love, but he gets the key points: they were together for a while, but things ended badly. It sounds like the boy's trying to deliver a moral message, an anvil so large that it's in danger of slapping Ste around the face. He admires the kid for trying, and he manages to contain his scorn for a teenager comparing his past summer romance to what he and Brendan had; a future that he'd planned, that he'll never be able to touch now.

"You can't let the bad things in your past stop you from living in the future."

Ste points at him, the oh so wise George, and his sudden transformation from mere stranger into relationship expert. The beer sloshes in its can; he's lost count of how many he's had now. He's not sure that even Pauline would have this many in one sitting.

"You've got it all sussed out you, ain't ya?"

George laughs; he's as drunk as his drinking partner now. "No! I'm just saying, there's someone out there for everyone, and just because it isn't right the first time, it doesn't mean you need to stop looking."

Ste lays the can down on the floor, eyes swimming and head pleasantly fuzzy, detached. George is starting to make sense, and he doesn't know when that happened. He's mumbling, something about how there's a right person out there for everyone, and presenting Ste with facts and figures - the world's population, and how it all links - but he's here, in his flat, and he didn't run away when Ste started talking about Brendan, and he's not a kid -

_Intimacy. A warm body next to yours. What else is life about? _

Ste leans forward, and kisses him. Kisses him to shut him up, and because he hopes that somehow, Brendan's in his cell and he knows that he's doing this, knows that this is Ste raising his middle finger at him. _Fuck you, Brendan_. He hopes that he's hurting.

Ste breaks from the kiss, soft and fleeting, to look at George, to make sure that he wants this.

He sees surprise there, as though the boy honestly had no idea that drinking in his flat all afternoon would lead to this.

But he's not saying no, and Ste kisses him again, deeper this time, a hand on George's neck. He rises from the floor, because this is no longer enough, and offers his hand, an invitation that George immediately accepts.

"I've never done this before."

He doesn't seem the type, to have one night stands. Ste doesn't care about that; this is a first for him too. Before this, there was never going to be anyone else. One man, for the rest of his life.

"It's okay. You can trust me."

He leads George to the bedroom, where Brendan's clothes still hang in the wardrobe.

It's the first time he's done this in three months. It had been something that he'd grown accustomed to with Doug, and he'd enjoyed it, he _had_, but it didn't set his skin on fire. Didn't make him cry out for release, make his body sweat and his hands shake, his climax almost painful he wanted it so badly. It was good, and it could be amazing, but it wasn't like with Brendan. It was never like that.

George pulls their bodies together blindly in the dark, the curtains drawn so that Ste has to turn on the small light to see him, although he thinks it would be easier like this, in the darkness. But he soon realises that he can't pretend; he can't conjure up someone else's face, someone else's touch. George is unmistakably _George_; even skinner than Ste, with a lack of body hair that's almost startling, making him draw back for one moment, thinking _am I doing the right thing here? Is this boy even legal? _

But George's cock is responsive when Ste begins to stroke it, and it's all the evidence he needs that the boy wants it, that this is reciprocal. It's smaller than Ste's used to, but that's not what's important here - this isn't about how impressive he is, or whether he'll be the best fuck he's ever had. Ste can already answer that question: he won't be. Not even close, because no one's close. And no one will ever be close again.

There's no power struggle here, no uncertainty over who will lead. Ste's been leading this since the start, and George is on his back, looking tentative and unsure, as though asking him for direction. Something in Ste's gut stirs, a hint of discomfort. But he brushes it away, concentrates on making the lad hard in his hand. George may have told him that he hasn't done this before, that he's never gone to bed with someone who he's only properly first spoken to a couple of hours ago, but he's eager enough now. Nothing has ever been casual about the sex Ste has either, with men or women. Amy, Theresa, Rae, Noah, Doug, Brendan - it's all had to mean something, otherwise what's the point? He's not designed for casualness, not built for flings where you know more about the person's body than their story, their life.

But talking isn't what he wants right now. All he know about George is that he's looking at him like he needs him, and Ste's hard against the lad's thigh, and he's searching frantically in the drawer for a condom. He wants this to be quick, and he thought that George did too, but he takes him by surprise. "Wait," he says, and Ste immediately freezes, because if this isn't consensual, if George doesn't want this, then he won't force it. He'd never force it.

The boy leans on the mattress with his elbows, propping himself up and looking into Ste's eyes in a way that brings that discomfort to the fore again. There's too much behind that look; far more than there should be. Fuck, he's drunk out of his mind - his breath must stink of booze, and he's slurring and spent the entire period that they've known each other talking about his ex, but George still wants him; Ste can see it in his expression, George's face an unguarded map of want and emotion.

"Just...take it slow, yeah?" He sounds nervous, licking his lower lip and glancing down at his own naked form as though only just realising where he is, what he's doing, how he's wearing no clothes and he's got Ste's hard dick pressed against him.

"Yeah. You can trust me," Ste says for the second time, isn't completely sure why he feels the need to reassure him, but assumes that it's because George's younger. He doesn't give off the impression of being someone who has a shag every Friday night, who goes on the pull and wakes up in the morning with a new guy in his bed. Maybe he's only done this once or twice. Ste can handle that, knows what to do with that. He was a bundle of nerves when Brendan first took him to bed, thought that he would laugh at his complete lack of experience.

Going down on a girl wasn't the same as wrapping your lips around a nine inch cock; one of the many things that he discovered, a steep learning curve that bewildered him at first, before he felt the overwhelming sense of pride and accomplishment at making Brendan come, grunting and roaring like an animal who'd only just been let out of their cage. As he'd swallowed Brendan's come for the first time, grinning in satisfaction and knowing that Brendan couldn't take his eyes off him, he'd realised that be could do this. That he liked doing this.

There's no hesitation as he dips down and kisses George, a mess of tongues that has the boy thrusting his hips up, gently at first as though still ashamed of the action, afraid that Ste might feel it and reject him. Ste wonders where his own fear went, can't point at a specific moment in time and say _aha_ - that's when I became confident, and everything else ceased to matter: whether I'm too loud, or too rough, or too selfish. Brendan had destroyed those derogatory voices, had filled Ste's head with different replacements: Someone wants me. Someone loves me.

He lets out a gasp, tries to pass it off as something passionate, like he's unable to control himself. George holds him closer, firmer, the confirmation he needs to displace the coyness, the large eyes staring up at Ste like he's lost, and needs to be looked after. Ste can't see his eyes at all now. He's too busy making a path down George's stomach, his fingers settling around his groin, feeling the wetness of his precome.

"Want me to go in?"

_"Want me to go in with my fingers, Steven?"_

"Yeah." Shake to his voice. Wants it, but doesn't want it. The conflict makes him afraid.

_"Yeah. Please...fuck. Please, Brendan." Certainty there, with a hint of bossiness that made Brendan chuckle low in his throat, only turning serious again when he watched the rapture spreading across Ste's face with the insertion of the first long, dexterous finger, probing and stretching. _

Ste reaches for the lube, spreading a generous amount onto his fingers. George's hole looks tight, and feels rejecting of his digit when he presses against it.

_"I'm gonna have to use spit." Brendan motioned to the empty lube bottle, and Ste looked with glazed eyes, legs already around Brendan's shoulders, hole exposed to him. He didn't feel exposed though - or he did, but not like that, not vulnerable. He felt free, like this. _

_"Do it." He was eager, greedy, hips pushed up on the bed to anchor towards Brendan, hopeful of persuading him to forget about working him up to two, three fingers. He wanted to be fucked now. _

"Ouch." George winces, forehead creased and eyes squeezed shut. Ste pulls out, tries to withdraw slowly so that he doesn't add to the burn.

"Sorry." He hears how slurred it sounds, wonders whether the boy can even make out the words. "Why don't we forget about this?" He gestures to his fingers, still warm from the brief contact inside George's hole. "Why don't I stick my cock in you?"

George's shocked by his boldness, eyes widening. He stares down at Ste's groin, and Ste recognises that look: intimidation. It's one he's had before, had found it hard enough to contemplate getting Brendan's dick into his mouth, let alone having it _there_.

He mentally scratches off the estimation that he's had of George sleeping with just a couple of people. The way he's acting, Ste would guess that this is his second time.

_"Remember when you were a virgin, Steven? First time in your bed?" Brendan smiled, his own private joke, delighting in Ste's embarrassment. _

_"Shut up. I wasn't a virgin." It was hard being angry at Brendan when he was filling him up, the stretch so divine that it made Ste shift off the bed, having to have a gentle hand holding him down. _

_"You were with girls before." Brendan said it like it was something dirty, his nose crinkling up. _

_"Maybe they were better than you..."_

_That had resulted in the loss of Brendan's cock, the exact form of torture that Brendan knew he couldn't withstand. Ste was itching to feel it inside him again, making a grab for the Irishman's hips to try and bring him closer once more._

_"Don't be like that."_

_"It's a simple question." Brendan looked at him with dark eyes, smoothing a strand of hair away from Ste's face. _

_"Fine then." Ste sighed, eyes firmly attached to Brendan's cock, and how fucking hard it was, too far away for Ste's liking. "Yes, I remember."_

_"Now look at you." Brendan shuffled forward, seemingly satisfied by Ste's compliance. _

_"What?" Ste felt self consciousness gripping him; Brendan looked like he was observing every action, every movement, every expression. _

_"You're so..." Brendan pushed back into him, his groans accompanied by Ste's own sounds, and the boy's deliberate attempt to relax, to take him in further. "So fucking amazing, Steven."_

_Brendan's weight was on top of him, and his lips were attached to Ste's neck, wet kisses being sucked into his skin. Ste was glad that Brendan couldn't see his face, couldn't see the way that Ste's lips spread impossibly wide, an ache to his jaw he was smiling so fiercely. He'd never been called amazing like that before; had never been called amazing by anyone but Amy, and he'd never expected it from this man. The affection startled him. The bruises that Brendan had recently inflicted on his ribs had only just begin to fade, and displays of intimacy were becoming more precious; something to keep hold of, amidst all the things that told Ste that this wasn't right, that Brendan would never love him. _

"I'm...I'm not sure. Maybe you should try again, with your fingers."

Ste knows not to push it. He coats his hand so thoroughly that it glistens, and concentrates on massaging the lube around George's entrance, trying to work him up to feeling that pleasure that he felt every time that Brendan did this, so that by the time he rubbed against Ste's prostate, he already wanted to come.

"Does that feel good?" He can hear the slip and slide of his finger against George's weakening muscle, and the sound of the lube with each movement. George's cheeks have turned faintly pink, and his face is smooth now. Almost serene.

"Yes." His legs begin to open more, almost unconsciously; a silent invitation for Ste to start fingering him. When Ste inserts the tip, the boy's breathing goes quiet, but he doesn't tell him to stop.

_"You taught me things, didn't you?" He knew he shouldn't be wasting energy on talking, not when he was already out of breath, his chest heaving rapidly, his hands clutching Brendan's back so tightly that he was sure that there would be marks there in the morning. He shouldn't even be saying this at all, didn't want Brendan to get an even bigger ego, already seemed pretty damn sure of the effect he had on Ste, the way he knew his body better than anyone, knew exactly what he liked. _

_"I don't know." Brendan's voice was low, and he didn't lessen in his movements, the pace of his thrusts growing in frequency. "Maybe you've taught me some things." _

"Better?

George nods, eyelids fluttering shut. Ste can feel the tension leaving his body, and he pushes his finger further up, watching to see how much of it the boy likes.

_"Stop taking the piss." He scolded him, but there was hope behind the facade. Brendan had called him amazing, and now he was acting like they were equals here, in bed; maybe even that Ste gave him something that he hadn't experienced before, couldn't get from anyone else. _

_He resisted the urge to ask: am I dreaming? _

Ste adds a second finger, and George's legs lift, the tension making him rigid again, unresisting at first to Ste's attempts to calm him down, whispering words into his ear. When the boy's hole is tight and unaccommodating Ste kisses him, has found that it's the best distraction technique of all. It's always worked for him, the feel of Brendan's moustache, that peculiar mixture of softness and roughness against his mouth.

He can feel it working as George settles back against the pillow again, and when he looks at him Ste can see the trust there. He wants to make it good for him, but most of all he wants to make it good for himself; that's the point of this. It doesn't have to be the best shag of his life, but it needs to be enough. Enough to stop the pain running through his body, the sudden overwhelming realisation that George is the first person he's slept with since Brendan. He's replacing Brendan's touch, his lips, his hands, his words, his promises; replacing them with someone whose surname he doesn't even know.

He understands for the first time what the word hollow means.

"Are you ready?" He murmurs it against George's mouth, _needs_ him to be ready. This isn't enough contact, isn't enough to silence the thoughts that the booze hasn't managed to kill.

George nods, and it's all the permission he needs. Ste grabs a condom hurriedly, dick straining in his hands. He hisses as he strokes down the head, spreading his precome and getting lost to the sensation of how good it feels.

_"You like masturbating, don't you?" Brendan's voice was a low rumble. Ste could hear his arousal spiking off him in waves. _

_"What kind of question is that?" He asked wryly, trying not to show what Brendan's touch was doing to him, the way he was circling his fingers lightly across Ste's stomach, semen drying there. _

_He felt his dick twitch; it was almost impossible, how hard Brendan could get him when they'd only just fucked. He was having to resist straddling him and persuading him to go again. He didn't know how Brendan would react to such forwardness. He called the shots here. _

_"A valid one." Brendan stared down at Ste's hand, and Ste followed his gaze. Fuck. He hadn't even realised what he'd been doing; didn't even know that he'd been gently tracing his finger back and forth against his entrance._

_He turned bright red, heard Brendan say 'cute' under his breath. _

_"I used to think about that all the time, you know."_

_"What?" Ste asked, withdrawing his hand and registering the disappointment on Brendan's face. _

_"You lying in bed, awake. Fucking yourself with your fingers." His eyes were at half mast, his pupils dark. _

_"When did you think about that?" Ste whispered. He wondered if he ought to be outraged at the idea of Brendan thinking of him like that._

_He loved it. _

_"Before we...you know."_

_Ste wanted to tell the butterflies in his stomach to shut the fuck up; he wasn't a teenager for Christ's sake. But the fact that Brendan had been attracted to him for months now, before Ste was even aware of it - it made his head spin, made him fight to keep the smile from showing. He'd smiled a lot, that night. _

_"What else did you think about?" He asked coyly, not wanting to give away how interested he was, how so much settled on Brendan's reaction._

_"These." Brendan lifted Ste's fingers, and Ste couldn't help thinking of where they'd been that night, and the things they'd done. "Here." Brendan guided Ste's hand towards his groin, settling it over his cock, gliding it smoothly against his foreskin. "And here." He directed him closer to Ste's hole, back where his hand had been before he'd been made aware of it. _

_Ste felt responsive to every sensation. Brendan was barely doing anything to him, but he felt a spurt of precome being released, watched with amazed eyes as Brendan noticed the wetness against his thigh. His eyes were warm and shining, and he never took them off Ste as he dipped down and pressed his lips around his cock, lapping him up and groaning around him. _

_Brendan rested against his leg, and Ste bit his lip to fight the frustration of being denied more of his mouth wrapped around him. _

Ste's going to make himself come if he continues. George's dick is growing as he watches him, seeming startled by the confidence that the man possesses. He looks like he's never seen this before, never seen someone creating their own pleasure like it's their right.

_"You gonna be good for me?" _

_Ste stared at Brendan, confused. Had he been bad?_

_"You gonna stroke yourself? Make yourself come for me?" Brendan looked at him like he wanted nothing more, was radiating heat and sex, was gorgeous with how much he wanted Ste. _

_It made Ste want to be that confident. He wanted to give Brendan what he wanted, realised in that moment that it was exactly what he wanted too. _

_"Yeah." It sounded like a mere breath, still not completely comfortable at being this open, this on display. But he was getting there, and Brendan wasn't rushing him; he liked that, liked the patience. It made him feel like he wasn't a sexual object to him, wasn't a toy to be used and discarded. He was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, Brendan - _

_"Go on." Brendan's skin was flushed, and his lips were parted, and Ste had never seen someone so turned on. He couldn't believe that it was him doing this, that Brendan was getting off on the idea of Ste making himself climax. His encounters with girls had been rushed in the past, influenced by them having too much to drink, or the awkwardness that came from youth. This was completely different: slow, drawn out, exploratory, exquisite. _

_"Hand me something." He signalled to his bag on the floor, and Brendan stared at it curiously, starting to search its contents. Ste had lied to him before, hadn't told him that he'd brought a brand new bottle of lube from the supermarket a day ago. He didn't want Brendan to think that he'd carefully orchestrated this, to know that he'd been so desperate for him to fuck him earlier that he hadn't wanted to pause for a moment to get supplies. _

_Brendan reached for it eagerly, no remarks, no secret smirks. He __passed it to Ste and then sat back on his knees. Waiting. Watching._

_Ste squirted the lube onto his hand, wanting something to ease the glide. It was also something to prolong this, to hold off that inevitable moment when he'd have to touch himself there, and trust that he was desirable enough to make Brendan come, from this. Just from this. _

_The first few strokes were difficult. He was aware of Brendan's eyes on him, and this was different to when they touched each other; there was no distraction, no way to make the other close their eyes by swiping a tongue along the underside of their cock. Brendan's attention was focused solely on him. _

_But something else began to take over. Pure pleasure flooded through Ste's body as he jerked himself off, and the moans that escaped from Brendan's mouth encouraged him; the cries of 'fuck Steven', and 'Jesus' were affirming. It made Ste's hand move faster, made him want to do more. He held his free hand out to Brendan and nodded over to the bottle of lube, and the Irishman understood, picked it up and poured some over Ste's skin, applying it liberally. _

_Ste didn't have the capacity to say thank you._

_He continued stroking himself while he moved his hand downwards, towards his puckered entrance. He could see Brendan following his line of sight, and it was a thrill that made Ste want to push more boundaries, see how much harder he could make Brendan's cock swell. _

_He made himself come sooner than he'd expected. It was a combination of things that sent him over the edge: the way he was growing more comfortable with his own body, and what he enjoyed. The fact that he wanted to be fucked again, already. And the way that Brendan was looking at him, like he'd never seen something so perfect in his life. _

_His orgasm was almost violent. He came in streams, spunk hitting his chest, close to his nipples. _

_Brendan licked it off him then displayed his open mouth, the come gleaming on his tongue. _

_Ste giggled. _

"Do it."

It takes a while for him to hear George's words; he's too caught up in this, the feel of his hand stroking down himself, milking pleasure from his dick.

His eyes flutter open.

"Yeah?"

Ste squeezes his dick firmly, needs to starve off orgasm otherwise he's going to come embarrassingly early.

He's stroked himself so roughly that the condom has split. He rolls it off, replacing it with a new one, and George spreads his legs further, his own dick pooled against his stomach.

Ste lines himself up. He senses that the boy needs this now - needs to be kissed as he enters him, because while his hands are pulling Ste towards him, his face looks fucking terrified.

Their chests are pressed together, and Ste feels for George's hole, slippery with lube.

When he pushes into him, the boy gasps.

_Brendan fucked him on the carpet. Ste hadn't planned it, hadn't expected to be getting carpet burns on his knees, but things had become playful between them, mischievous. _

_They'd grabbed and tickled and bitten and clawed at each other, their laughter filling the room. Ste's cock was softening, and Brendan's own was nestled in his bed of public hair. This wasn't about sex; not right then. It was about doing something fun together, something that let them get to know each other beyond the confines of their bodies. _

_Ste learnt that the best sound in the world was Brendan laughing. _

_The bed had evaded them. They collapsed onto the floor, sticky from their exertions. Ste never wanted to leave the room. The outside world couldn't match up to this. Nothing could. _

_"Which position do you want?" Brendan asked casually, and it did feel casual, felt like something they could do - ask each other questions about their sex life, with openness and the certainty that this wasn't about to end anytime soon. Ste didn't know when this had happened, when he became the kind of person who could do this; be a man, and understand what that meant for the first time, like he'd merely been sleepwalking before, existing rather than living. _

_Ste was beginning to realise that they weren't going to make it to the bed. He leant on the carpet on his knees, hands secured either side, arse propped upwards in Brendan's direction. _

_He heard Brendan's breathing quicken, actually heard it and it made anticipation grow within him. The sound of the condom wrapper made Ste lean his head against the railing of the bed, impatience flooding through him. He was intensely relieved that he was still loose from before; no preparation would be necessary. _

George feels different. It _is_ different, doing this to someone rather than it being done to him.

Ste thrusts into him harder, thinks that the problem lies there: he likes it rough, doesn't he? That's how he liked it with Brendan. The pieces should fit now that he's gripping his hands around George's thighs, fucking relentlessly into his hole. The pieces should fit.

_Sex with Brendan was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He'd never felt so connected to another person before, thought that it was something that only existed in a distant kind of reality, the idea of needing someone so much, and loving them so strongly that it made losing them a terrifying possibility, and so you hold on even tighter. _

_Brendan was behind him, and his thrusts were urgent, nothing tender about them. But everything else was tender; the way that Brendan stroked along his back, his hands smooth and soft. The way that he angled Ste's face in his hand and turned him towards him, capturing their lips in a kiss. It was intimate, and it built something so powerful inside Ste that he was afraid he was going to choke on it, reveal himself to be the needy, pathetically in love person that he was increasingly becoming. _

_He never wanted to be without him. _

George comes before Ste does. Ste empties himself into the condom, throwing it away into the bin and putting the covers over them both. He can sense George looking at him even when he closes his eyes. Ste ignores it. The alcohol in his system is making him sleepy, and he lets it wash over him, lulling him into unconsciousness.

He dreams of Brendan, of soft skin and bee stung lips and rough stubble, and he's so real that Ste wraps his arms around him, and feels no fear.


End file.
